


What Cannot Be Undone

by MessengerHermes



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:12:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5305268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MessengerHermes/pseuds/MessengerHermes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A month after Sam and Steve finally find Bucky, Sam takes a step back from his new vigilante friends as the Brooklyn duos reunion brings back the sting of a loss he spent years healing over. Fortunately, Steve is a concerned mother hen who's bad at worrying from afar. </p>
<p>Note: Not Age of Ultron, or CA: CW compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Cannot Be Undone

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned in the summary, this story is not in line with Age of Ultron or Captain America: Civil War since I haven't seen either of them. I actually started this after first seeing Winter Soldier in theaters and being struck by how this quest to save Bucky might emotionally impact Sam, who lost Riley under similar circumstances, without the hope of ever seeing him again.

Sam sits out on his porch a month after he and Steve found Bucky. The sounds of kids playing a pick-up game carry on the warm wind with the smell of cut grass. The five month search had been more a game of look away, as wherever Steve was Bucky had never been far behind. Getting Bucky to face them and stop running away had been the trick. 

Bucky and Steve went back to New York and with Brooklyn now a stranger and SHIELD in shambles, they took up residence at what Tony Stark now dubbed, Tower Avengers. Sam insisted on keeping his own place, but spent at least half his nights at the tower. Except Sam couldn’t bring himself to stay at the tower at all the last two weeks. He assured Steve that he was fine when the other man called, that he just had a heavier workload with the Veteran’s Association at the moment, he’d stop by when he could. In truth, it was too hard to watch Steve and Bucky together without feeling like he was falling from the sky.

Since coming to the Towers, Bucky is slowly improving, he consistently answers to his name and he remembers more about the past, the holes in his memory no longer triggering icy silences, but frustration. Sam had been sitting with Bucky and Steve talking in one of those good moments. The two were mouthing off at each other, accents thick, smiles wide. For a minute Sam forgot he was half living in the home of one of the richest men on the east coast alongside the team who saved New York from being leveled by aliens barely a year ago. He bust a gut laughing at Bucky’s impression of Tiny Steve, picking a fight with a guy twice his size in a bar for heckling the waitresses. 

Steve gave Bucky a shove reminding him that he’d was right there with him. Bucky retorted most of their lives he was pulling Steve behind him, and what would Steve have to look at without his rugged figure? Maybe he’d see more of Brooklyn, Steve shot back, but Sam saw the raw look in his eyes. The memory of turning around, sentence half finished, realizing the person it was for was no longer there. Bucky must have seen it too, because he leaned his weight against Steve, reminding them both of the other’s presence.

That gesture reminded Sam of the empty air beside him. A small part of him in those months chasing Steve’s Riley across two hemispheres had rekindled a hope that the space beside him would be full again. 

That despite all odds, he’d turn a corner and somehow Riley would be there, like he’d just gone for coffee and where the hell had Sam been? But they found Bucky, and Riley was still gone.

There had been several moments in the last two weeks, on his lunch break, in his morning jog, on the drive home that he’d thought of going by the tower. Each time he found himself missing the turn. He knew better than to sit at home by now though. When he first got back from service it took him months to crawl out of that hole. He spent days at a time, roaming his shuttered apartment restless, wanting to go out but feeling as if even the sun’s touch was more than he deserved. Thinking of how pissed Riley would be at him for slouching around in forced exile, for acting as if he’d gone down that day too gave him that first push. Times like this came less and less and when they did Sam stopped hiding from it, stopped hiding in it. 

This time, he played soccer with his nieces and let them do his nails while they watched Star Trek that night. The vets and his coworkers knew not to question his red and silver French tips the next day. He caught up with some of his other friends, the ones who didn’t run around in body armor, who spent a large part of their Magic night calling BS on his various Avengers anecdotes.It was hard to believe that a robot built by engineering genius could mistakenly spill an entire bottle of Ajax into a running washing machine. He ate dinner with his parents, who lately oscillated between extreme pride that their son helped foil an attempt at global domination and intense fretting over his safety. 

Briefly, he’d even seen Fury, they shared a brief talk in an old bar, a pair of vets who served together. Natasha was also present. Never in person, but in little things, a bag of donuts still warm on the counter, a new carton of OJ in the fridge, a pack of gum, and once, a sketch of Sam on a train, content face reflected in the window pane, probably from Steve. Affirmations that his heart still had room to grow with other people caring for it.

The ache had abided over the past two weeks, to the point where the absence of Riley’s footfalls in time with his no longer felt like a glaring error in the universe. Still he couldn’t bring himself to spend much time on the phone with Steve or Natasha when they called (Bucky running constant commentary in the background, but still too perturbed by cellphones to talk on one himself). So he finds himself on his porch steps, half-heartedly picking at a salad that sounded appealing before he made it.

The sounds of the children playing are overtaken by a motorcycle clearing its engine and Sam looks up to find Steve pulling into his drive way. A pang of anxiety surges in his chest and Sam moves to stand setting his plate on the railing, but Steve waves him off walking over. Steve stops in front of the other Sam. Captain America is nowhere in sight. Instead awkward Steve Rogers, shoulders hunched as he looked up at Sam through his lashes stood in his walkway. He rocks slightly, hands in his pockets his mouth in a stubborn line and concern in his eyes. 

“Mind if I join you?” He asks, as if he hasn’t just driven out uninvited to Sam’s door. 

Sam finds himself smiling and shoves a bite of salad in his mouth to cover the laugh that threatens to bloom. He’s missed the bashful sulking goober everyone believes is applepie and Labrador puppies in human form.

“There’s enough step to share I suppose. The salad’s all mine though.” Sam says, resuming his plate and his seat. “You should really wear a helmet, Captain Spangles.” 

“It’s not like I need one Sam.” Steve says, settling down beside Sam on the stairs. 

His shoulders are so broad he pushes into him by accident. They fumble a minute, trying to fit together on the narrow stoop, before Steve leans back on his elbows and Sam tilts forward, plate on his knees. 

Sam flicks a tomato chunk at Steve’s leg for the trouble. “But the kiddos who admire you do, Mr. Built in Shoulder Pads.” 

Steve laughs, picking the chunk of tomato off his jeans and popping it into his mouth. Probably just for the noise of disgust Sam makes in the back of his throat.

“Point taken, Big Bird.” 

Sam considers blocking PBS on the tower’s cable.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of Mister Roger’s company? Or has he come to eat whatever is thrown his way?” Sam asks, flicking a crouton at Steve’s face. It smacks him in the nose before he barely catches it in his mouth. 

“Never pass up a free snack.” Steve says, grin flickering briefly across his face before he looks serious. “Hadn’t seen much of you in the past two weeks. Wanted to make sure things were okay. That you’re okay.”

Sam rolls his shoulders, and talks to his plate, “Yeah, just been busy with work, apparently saving the world from Hydra didn’t earn me any extra PTO.” 

Steve nudges Sam’s knee with his own. “I stopped by the Veteran’s Center today, they said you’d taken a half day. When I said you must be recuperating from them being so swamped they told me things haven’t been that busy. What’s up Sam?” 

Sam sighs, twisting to lean back on the patio railing, regarding Steve as he chews a mouthful of avocado and lettuce, stalling. 

“You’re not gonna let this lie are you?” He asks.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to. I was just worried. I won’t push.” Steve says.

Sam snorts, “Bullshit man, like you aren’t gonna follow me around my house all night like a worried mother hen until I tell you something that satisfies you.” 

Steve folds in on himself like a man used to being half the size he was, face reddening. “I know I’m pushy. Tasha said to wait. I just—you’ve done a lot for me, Sam, for us. You’re the first person I had to call friend that wasn’t a coworker first in a long time. You been there for me, I wanna be there for you.”

“I’m pretty sure a psychic somewhere is using you to write Hallmark cards.” Sam says and Steve tries to shrink even further, face as red as the stripes on his suit, “But it never hurts to hear someone’s in your corner.” 

Sam gets a Steve Rogers smile, small, lopsided, embarrassed and honest in return. When Steve stops imitating an accordion Sam goes back to his salad. Taking the time he spends chewing to gather his thoughts. Steve catches on, and occupies himself watching a pair of bee’s skirt around Sam’s tiny yard, flitting between the dandelions Sam can’t bring himself to pull. After sopping the last of the dressing from the plate with the final crouton, Sam clears his throat.

“I’ve missed Riley more than usual lately.” He says shooting a glance at Steve. They’d talked about Riley before, swapped stories about the friends they’d had so long, that losing them was a hole in the world. But Sam hadn’t brought up Riley since they found Bucky. Finding those steady eyes on him, with no sign Steve was inclined to interrupt, he goes on.

“Seeing you and Buck together. I mean, I’m happy for you both. I went through that loss. When your right hand guy is no longer beside you and you know he’s never coming back. But Bucky, Bucky did and you did before that. And I don’t spite you for it. But it stings. Because Riley, Riley isn’t coming back. Ever. I watched him go down and I watched him go into the ground. And I’ve moved on. I miss him. But I still have things good, I’m still happy. But it’s without him. And sometimes that burns the worst. And even being happy for you, I still look at you and Bucky laughing and part of me goes, why not him? Even never wishing what Barnes went through on another person, never imagining Riley go through that hell and not knowing my face. But even with all that, part of me goes, why not him?” 

At some point, Steve shifted up to sit beside Sam, his side pressing against the other man’s warm and strong. All muscle and super soldier serum. He doesn’t say anything, just sits, wrists on elbows, eyes on Sam, waiting. 

“Even after all this time, he’s still the first person I want to tell things. That first morning, I wanted to call him up and be like, ‘You’ll never guess what asshole ran rings around me in the park today.’ When we took down those helicarriers, I kept listening for his wings next to mine. When good news comes I still sometimes have my finger on the call button before I remember there’s no one there on the end of the line. I miss him. I miss all the things I’ll never get to tell him. And even when I’m happy, there’s that little edge of ‘Riley would have loved this.’ And it’s almost like, in some moments, I would do anything to get him back. Part of me thought helping you find Bucky would help me too. In some ways it did, but some ways helping still hurts.” 

Sam sighs, throat tight, eyes wet, tipping his head back to bump against the rail and looking aside at Steve. “And that’s the long of it.” 

Steve surprises him when he throws an arm around his shoulder and from the stiffness in the motion Sam thinks he surprised himself. He doesn’t pull away though, he gives Sam a squeeze and Sam leans in, noting vaguely how he’s shaking all over. They’ve cried in front of each other before. Steve’s grief was still raw, waking up finding not only his best friend gone, but everyone he knew either dead or an octogenarian. As much as he kept to himself it still came out sometimes. Like a call and answer, that pain found the still sore parts in Sam’s heart as well. Even knowing they passed crying in front of each other before, it always felt so vulnerable. 

Suddenly losing Riley isn't years or hours or minutes ago, it's the all present always. Like he just walked out of the room, his laugh still in the air. Like he just took flight arms spread wide as the sun and smile twice as bright.

But he's gone. He’s dead.

And Sam isn't.

Riley won't be back.

But Steve is here.

And Bucky came back.

And somehow chasing Steve's Riley halfway round the world, that little part of Sam, buried way down low, believed he might see that smile again.

But he didn't. He won't.

Riley's gone.

But now there is Steve. Now there is Natasha. Now there is even slowly, Bucky.

Steve who knows what hurt feels like, but doesn’t try to explain it away. Natasha, with smiles like private jokes, the moment of peace in a crowded room. Bucky, whose attention feels like a warm weight, secure.

Steve who sees Sam the vet counselor, Sam the Falcon and Sam at three am drinking from the carton and looks at all of him like one person. Natasha, strong and skittish, who never pushes Sam, but builds this back and forth on small gifts and favors neither of them track. Bucky, reaching doggedly across decades of ice, first because he knew Sam mattered to Steve, but then seeking Sam on his own.

Sam knows his heart’s moved on, but Riley’s fingerprints will always be there, even as he finds room for others.

It’s always a surprise to find a new set of fingerprints there and to know they don't take away this ache, but they make it breathable, when nothing else does.

Somewhere along the line, Steve made things breathable. Nat made them breathable. Bucky, slowly makes them breathable.

The evening sun is halfway down by the time Sam feels more in his skin. His empty plate somewhere between Sam sitting next to Steve and ending up practically in the other man’s lap was set a step down from them. His head is resting in the crook of Steve’s shoulder. Steve’s palms, larger than life, make small circles at the nape of his neck and against his ribs. No trace remains of the initial stiffness from when he first pulled Sam close.

“Not to encourage spontaneous visits, but I’m glad you came by.” Sam says, his voice cracking before smoothing out again. 

“Therapist says I need to work on my boundaries and impulse control.” Steve deadpans as Sam looks up. “I talked myself out of it three times before coming by. I’m gonna argue that’s progress.”

Sam snorts, “As long as you don’t show up on my lawn with a boombox every time I need some space.” 

Steve scoffs as they stand, “Of course not, I’d use an electric radio. Kicking it old school.”

Sam stares at Steve, trying desperately not to be the first to crack up. But Steve stares back with such disingenuous earnestness and says, “Hawkeye likes 80’s romance flicks.” And Sam loses it.

“Steve, man, you sound like a Speak ‘N Spell taught you slang. We gotta work on that.” Sam gasps as he leans on the other man, who’s now laughing along with him.

“That’s what I rely on you whippersnappers for. Keep me swinging with the lingo.” Steve answers and Sam is 90% sure that he’s throwing words together to make him laugh more. It works.

They recover again and Steve’s expression takes on the same stubborn concern it held when he first arrived. “I don’t want to hound you every time you need space, Sam, or make you feel like you can never take a step back. But I don’t want you to feel like you need to hide when time are hard, or make you feel like you need a cover to keep me out of your hair. There’s room for sunshine and horseshit to occupy the same street.”

Sam ducks his head and pushes down the urge to cry again. “Doesn’t wear a helmet and swearing in the open air. Won’t Captain America think of the children?”

Steve snorts, and Sam feels the way his chest vibrates under his palm. He notes absently that Steve’s boots are spotless, striking next to his own scuffed loafers. A warm hand cups his cheek and nudges a little bit and Sam looks up. 

He sighs and smiles, fatigue and relief twining together as he covers Steve’s hand with his own. “Some days it’s easy to forget that I can let people in the door, even when the house isn’t as inviting.” 

“My house is one of those theme park fronts with the rats all running up the rafters.” Steve says, smiling crookedly, “I’ve seen plenty of dives, Sam, don’t ever straighten up just on my account.” 

“In that case, seeing as it’s a Friday, if you don’t have anyplace to be or crisis to avert, would you care to spend the night?” Sam asks, scooping up the forgotten plate. 

“Why, I’d be delighted” Steve answers, voice tapering towards a silent but.

Sam half expected it—Steve and Bucky hadn’t spent a night more than a room apart since they’d found him—but still feels an ache. 

“But” Sam starts for him, giving Steve the out.

Steve leans forward voice low and his accent stronger, “Well Sam, letting strange men stay the night, what will your neighbors say? I’d hate to sully your good name.”

Sam busts out laughing, slapping Steve on the shoulder, “Rogers, get your ass in my house or off my lawn but pick one.”

Steve marches to the door and holds it open, standing at attention, “Sir, after you, sir.”

Sam shakes his head, “The people I let my house.” He smiles as Steve follows him through the door, Riley would have loved this.


End file.
